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February 11 Saturday Bicycle touring Italy Sardinia from Fordongianus Sardegna to the sacred Santa Cristina well near Paulilatino Sardinia Well, after bathing my bod in the radioactive salt thermal springs my legs were rejuvenated and ready to churn out more kilometres. We're bicycle toured over 1000 kilometres on Sardinia now. We stocked up on food as tomorrow is Sunday and we plan to be cycling somewhere along Sardinia's uninhabited west coast. The cycle ride to Paulilatino was through flat sheep ranching countryside with scrubby bushes after the climb out of Fordongianus. A view over the side to the valley below, lined with verdant pasture land, broken by lines of shrubs. The brambles with spiky thorns and cacti make an impenetrable fence -- far more effective at keeping people out and animals in than any barbed wire I've ever seen. I watched a train pull into the station at Paulilatino. It was a big one -- three cars. Cycling along the main SS131 to a turn off for the sacred well at Santa Cristina. Ate lunch at concrete benches with three tiers arranged in a semi-circle affording a view of olive trees and lush countryside. I went into the ticket office to check the admission rate to the sacred well and to get water. Francesco, after I ask "Quanto costa," point to my eye, and then to the well in a postcard, to indicate "How much does it cost to see the sacred well?" He cocks his head and says in perfect English, "What do you want?" Constant surprises on this tiny isle. The people at the other sites we've visited didn't speak one word of English. Francesco says he had a very nice Canadian girlfriend who taught him English when he worked at a restaurant in Switzerland. I ask for water and he takes my bottle to fill it at the tap from the bar while explaining it is only good for washing, not drinking. Three fellas at the bar eye me up and offered to buy me a beer which I immediately accepted. Sharon came in and they bought her one too. One fella is a plumber, the second a teacher, and the third is a shepherd. Sounds like the start of a bad joke, Sharon says. After another couple of beer only the shepherd remains. His name is Francesco too. He has 200 sheep. He milks twice a day by hand. He offers to buy us anther beer. We tell him if we have another beer we won't be able to ride our bikes. He says he lives about half a kilometre from Santa Cristina and offers to let us camp at his farm. He goes out to milk while we wait at the bar for him to return. Jojo, a young guy that works at the bar, shows me some books on the historic sites of Sardinia. There are a lot of books for one small island. Francesco returns from milking and buys more beer. We help him drink it, of course, since there is too much just for him. At around 8 PM we depart for the farmhouse. As we leave the bar I ask Francesco, the bartender, if he can check on us when he gets off shift. He says he will drop by. Francesco lights the way on his motor scooter while balancing a heavy milk can on the floorboard between his knees. We have a steep hill to tackle on our fully loaded touring bicycles -- or so it certainly seems steep after a few beer. We weave our inebriated way up to the top. Francesco opens a gate for his driveway and we pedal to his house. Many dogs kick up a ruckus as we get closer. He has three of the most fierce ones chained. I go to lean my heavily loaded touring bike against a bench, but Francesco indicates I should lean it against the house. He goes in and lights a lantern, then carries two huge armloads of dry twigs and branches inside to the open hearth fireplace. Another trip he brings two large cut logs and sets them abut a foot and a half apart in the back of the hearth, then piles the twigs and branches in between. His lighter produces a flickering flame that instantly ignites the smaller twigs and soon the whole pile is producing flames and heat. Francesco goes outside and starts a generator. Two long fluorescent tubes produce lots of light. He takes out a package of dry tubular pasta and cooks it on a propane stove. Soon we are eating pasta with meat tomato sauce and melted Parmesan mixed in. Appetizers are sliced sausage and olives. The olives are tart. No bones in the homemade sausage. It is tasty and chewy. Francesco says it takes one month to cure the sausage. Francesco, from the bar, arrives in time to join us for pasta. White wine is poured. It is strong. After a couple of plates of delicious pasta -- the sauce is terrific -- we're ready for dessert. Red wine is poured that has lots of aromatic flavour and a high alcohol content. Cheese, in a giant Tupperware-like plastic container, is brought to the table. Francesco opens the lid and a pungent odour wafts out. A fork is used to pick the cheese out of its shell-like covering and spread onto a chunk of crusty bread. Francesco from the bar smacks his lips approvingly and loads up another chunk of bread while I discretely slip my half-eaten piece into my napkin and shove it into my pocket. For further aging. Not enough mold yet. Cointreau liquor is brought out along with some white lightning. The bar Francesco makes coffees in teeny mugs. I put in two sugars while they put in two sugars and moonshine. After more glasses of red wine (which I keep pouring my glass's contents into Francesco the shepherd's glass whenever he gets up to do something. He must be wondering how his glass is never empty), Francesco from the bar says this is excellent wine and that he has served some of the best wines in the world to people like Teddy Kennedy and a princess of India when he worked at the top resorts in Switzerland. The wine reminds me of rubber boots. Maybe one has to acquire a taste for it? Or grow up on the stuff like they do around here? I must say though, it is a hundred times better than the shepherd hut brew. Noxious liquid that was. Around 11:30 PM, Francesco from the bar bids us good night and leaves for his house in Paulilatino. We go outside to our bicycle touring bikes and take out our sleeping bags and pads and spread them on the kitchen floor between the table and sink. Francesco lights a butane lantern and goes outside to turn off the generator. For added security, Francesco places a chair up against the farmhouse's locked metal door! Like anything is going to get past those demon dogs in the yard. Francesco waits until we're in our sleeping bag and then he turns off the lantern. With a flashlight, he retires into the only other adjoining room. We fall asleep to the warmth of remaining embers glowing cheerily in the hearth. |
